Better
by Salmagundi
Summary: America knows he deserves this for being bad. England is just trying to help him be better. England loves him... Dark!England/Colonial!America.


_**Better**_

-o-

**Warnings:** Warnings for dubcon and dark!England. Also, America in this is about 15-16 physically, so warnings for molestation of an underage nation.

**Notes:** Finally de-anoning this one from the meme. ^^; The prompt was "Petticoat Discipline"

Better

-o-

Red crept across America's cheeks as he stood there, the edge of the skirt fluttering around his legs. Just that would have been bad enough, but the teenager was hyper-aware of everything else as well - the corset that clung tightly to his upper body, forcing his flat chest and straight lines into a slight semblance of feminine curves. Below the skirts and petticoats, he wore long stockings, up past his calves, and the worst of all...

"Lift up your skirt, Alfred." England's voice was light and friendly, but not in the way it was if England was genuinely happy. America knew that tone... it meant he was still in trouble. He flushed deeply, hands plucking at the frill along his cuffs, his gaze dropping to the smooth polished wood of the floor below. Showing himself to anyone was one of the things he was forbidden to do - England had always stressed that. No one else was supposed to see Alfred... not right there. But England was telling him to... were England's orders supposed to take precedence over the rules? He hesitated a moment longer, torn, then England's voice came to him again - an edge as hard as steel. "Alfred."

That was an order - America knew that tone and he carefully hooked his fingers into the fabric, biting his lip as he slowly began to raise the front of the dress. He could feel the men's eyes on him, watching his every move - not just England but all of the others as well. There was something on the air, beneath the cloying smoke and the scent of liquour - a barely leashed hunger. England's green eyes glinted, the smallest upturn at the corners of his lips as America finally hiked the skirt high enough that they could see the bloomers beneath.

America was no girl, that much was obvious, even in these clothes. The bloomers were tight enough that they outlined the shape of his manhood beneath, cupping him possessively in much the same way that England always did. He couldn't look up, not properly, barely daring a glance beneath his lashes to see England's expression.

It had gone cool, England's look. Calculating. It sent little shivers through America's frame and he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, begging England for forgiveness. He didn't deserve it. America had been breaking the rules, touching himself - going so far as to bring himself to completion and leave the sticky evidence on the sheets. His attempts to hide it had been even more wrong - he'd known as soon as England caught him scrubbing the fabric desperately in the washtub. England had been furious... dragging America back to his bedroom and telling him to stay there until England could think of a suitable punishment.

"You enjoy behaving like a common strumpet, Alfred-" England had said, upon returning, "Then I suppose I must oblige you. Get dressed and come downstairs." And he'd left clothes for America... Girl's clothes.

Whore's clothes...

He could feel the eyes on him, England's friends and citizens observing his shame. They would all see how bad he was... how much of a slut, standing there in these clothes, with his skirt hiked high. His cheeks flushed deeply as England's hand on his arm guided him nearer and he had a faint hope of reprieve before England spoke. "Don't dally, boy. You're disappointing my guests." When America's head jerked up, hurt flashing in his eyes, he found no mercy in his guardian's gaze.

"B...but wh-what...?" He could barely begin to stutter out the question. What did England expect him to do?

"Honestly, Alfred, you cannot be that much of a fool! If you cannot behave like a proper colony, then you must at least be able to prove your worth to me as a proper whore. So go about and ask these gentlemen if they will pay for you."

"A-and what if they do?" His voice was so low even he could barely hear it.

"Then you will take their money and give them what they've paid for." There was steel in England's tone and it made America quiver, frozen in place until England took him by the arm and turned him toward the nearest guest.

America's legs wobbled as he approached the man, taller than him, wide all around, with a thick neck and breath that smelled of alcohol. "W-would you be interested in..." oh god... his heart felt like it would come out of his chest, it hurt so much... "In b-buying me?" He wanted to sink through the floor at the look the man was giving him, that half-disgusted, half-intrigued expression. America was still secretly hopeful that the man would say no - that he would be spared having to follow England's orders if none of these guests wanted him.

But the man pulled a coin from his purse, his gaze serious and intent. Eyes swept over America's body hungrily and the boy's hair stood on end, shivers running through him at that look. The cool metal was tucked into America's palm, and then that same hand, that slow-looking hand with its fat, sausage-like fingers brushed against the inside of America's leg and the boy jerked back with a soft cry, letting the skirt fall back down to cover himself.

Immediately a strong hand clamped onto the back of his neck, and he could only turn his head enough to see England out of the corner of his eye as his guardia's firm grip forced him to bend forward. England flipped his skirt up with an easy flick of the wrist, fingers hooking in the back of America's bloomers and dragging them down enough to expose the pale curve of his bare rump. The switch was in England's hand before America could even register the move, coming down across his bottom in a series of sharp snaps. Three times, so quickly that the welts only began to form as England tugged the fabric back up to cover them.

The boy was forced to straighten up again, England's voice low and dangerous in his ear. "I will not tolerate this disobedience, Alfred. Now, give my guest what he paid for. I won't keep a useless colony in my care. I would hate to have to give you to someone else - you know someone like France would not be nearly as leniant of your attitude as I am - but if this willfulness of yours continues, I may have no choice."

America knew. He'd heard a lot about France - enough that he knew just how lucky he was that England loved him so much that he would put up with America being a bad boy so often. Biting his lip, America eased toward the waiting man. His fingers trembled as they caught at the fabric of the skirt, raising it again. It took everything in him not to draw back when the man's greasy fingers played along the insides of his thighs, a whimper caught in his throat as the touch crept higher.

A broad thumb brushed the bottom of his panties, rubbing against the tender curve of his sacs where they left a slight swell in the fabric. There was a prickling at the corners of America's eyes and he drew in a shuddering breath that was obscenely loud in his own ears. His gaze went to England - anything to not have to see the man who was now curling his palm against America's limp cock - and the look on his guardian's face was worse than the touch. There was a distant coolness to England's expression, almost clinical, his green eyes taking in the sight of the hands fondling America's lower half. He made no move to intervene, just stood there in his neatly pressed jacket, his arms crossed. He might well have been watching a servant at work.

(But he was... England had even told him so. He wasn't a proper colony at all, just a whore to make money for England. Anything to be useful to England...)

A hot, clumsy hand slid around, slipping beneath the fabric of the skirt, rubbing against the tender welts along his rump and making him whimper sharply. The man traced the line of one of the switch-marks before skirting lower, a fingertip pressing along the groove between his cheeks and eliciting a yelp from the teen as he forced the fabric up close enough to America's skin that he could stroke his fat finger against the youngster's tight bud through the thin material.

His skirt was hiked again, and this time the switch came down not on America's bottom, but on the man's hand. England's expression had not changed a whit throughout this, even as the guest drew back with a short burst of obscenities. England looked at the man, as cold as a New York winter, "You didn't pay enough to touch the boy there."

For a moment it seemed like the man might be willing to pull out more coins from his purse, but he froze under England's gaze, withered, the prominant bulge in his trousers rapidly deflating as he took a few staggering steps backward.

America looked to England with mewling gratitude, hurt dashing across his eyes as England's switch met his rump again. A sharp jerk of England's head toward the other guests was all it took for America to remember what he was supposed to be doing. He ducked his head, a knot in his throat as he crept to the next man, shoes shuffling against the ground the entire way. He could barely hear the question himself as he asked the man if he would be bought. Another coin. Another round of that touching, with the gentleman running his hands along the flat span of America's belly, oddly obsessed with pinching the very slight softness that still lingered on hips and abdomen.

Again. To the next. Another coin and another pair of hands cupping at his cock - which gave a slight, interested twitch, much to his humiliation. A skillful rubbing brought him to hardness and he bit at the fabric of his skirt where it was raised between his fingers, muffling a scream as one fingertip pressed to the slit, causing the fabric to dampen with dribbles of his own fluids. It was all it took for America to know that England truly was right, that he was a slut. Here was the proof, pressed against the bottom of his belly and leaking against his skin. And America drew in breath in great, wet gasps, the tears that had threatened earlier finally escaping to run down his cheeks.

England's hand brushed against his shoulder and he turned, lips parted as his chest heaved with sobs. Fingers brushed away the tears trickling down his cheek, motion almost tender, before one of them pressed into America's open mouth and he could taste the bitter salt of them on his tongue. He didn't dare bite down, just struggling to breathe and submit to his guardian's touch, and ignore the other man, the stranger. Long seconds later, the hands pulled away from his lower body and England withdrew his fingers from America's mouth, glistening wet in the lamplight. England touched the back of America's wrists, gently disentangling his grip on the skirt and letting it fall back to cover America again.

"Go to your room and wait for me." England's voice brooked no reproach and America bobbed his head, gratitude and relief swirling through him. Now, at least, America knew what would come next - or he hoped he did. England wasn't making him do this anymore. England would forgive him and everything would be okay.

Just knowing that England cared enough to make sure he was a good boy was all that America needed. England wasn't going to make him go away. England loved him...

And he loved England too.

- End -

A/N: yeah, even without actual sex, it's one of the darkest things I've ever written... ^^;


End file.
